


seasons

by hydrospanners



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Gen, sleeves are bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrospanners/pseuds/hydrospanners
Summary: Inquisitor Adaar’s Rivaini sensibilities are offended by Ferelden’s climate.





	seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr. Written for Fictober 2017.

“I hate this country.”

“You mentioned,” Varric groused as he trudged along behind the Inquisitor, breathing hard. He was no more fond of this weather (or weather in general) than Adaar and in no better a mood.

Cassandra found herself smiling. It was nice to not be the tormented one, just this once. “You know, Inquisitor, you might find the weather more bearable if you—“

“I’m fine,” Adaar grumbled, uncrossing her bare arms like a toddler trying to prove a point. “I’m just saying, they don’t even have seasons here. It’s just snow, snow, and more snow. It’s boring.”

“Boring,” Cassandra said. “Right.”

The goosepimples on Adaar’s arms were so severe she could see them from yards back. A part of Cassandra worried she would give herself frostbite; another part of Cassandra was almost hoping she did. It would teach her a lesson. Maybe.

Beside her, Blackwall was eyeing the Inquisitor’s clothing with a dubious eye. She wore thick, woolen gloves under her leather ones, both with the fingers cut out, and more scarves than Cassandra could count. Under her boots Niria wore enough pairs of socks that her buckles strained to contain them, the leather swollen and pulling like she was suffering from an extreme flare of gout.

And yet, she had cut the sleeves off her tunic and jacket and the knit sweaters she layered between them.  _Cut_ them off. It wasn’t even that she lacked appropriate clothing for the colder climate of Ferelden; it was that she mutilated her clothes—deliberately—until they were useless against the cold.

Blackwall and Cassandra shared a look.

“Maybe it’s a Qunari thing,” he whispered. The Iron Bull did not trouble himself much with shirts either, but The Iron Bull also did not spend hours complaining about the temperature of his nipples.

“I do not think so,” Cassandra said, not bothering to keep her voice down. “I think it is an Adaar thing. A  _nonsense_ thing.”

“I can hear you,” the Inquisitor said.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Good. Maybe if I am loud enough you’ll give this childishness up and wear some sensible clothes. With  _sleeves_.”

“Sleeves are bullshit,” Adaar complained. “And if I’m wearing sleeves, how am I supposed to show these off?” She raised her arms and flexed.

Her musculature was admittedly impressive, but hardly the worth the frostbite. Varric’s snort suggested he agreed, but Blackwall had turned coat. He watched the shift of the Inquisitor’s muscles with interest, clearly compelled by her argument.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise.


End file.
